


the heart is a foreign country

by lacecat



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Speakeasies, everyone has had a rough life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9466799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacecat/pseuds/lacecat
Summary: It's 1922, and they're running a speakeasy in New York City.Only nothing is ever simple, and their pasts continue to follow them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (title from 1788: Meanwhile by Jack Gilbert)

_New York City, 1922_

 

 

“Christ,” James says, stopping short at the sight in front of him. “Is this the entire shipment?” 

 

The amber-colored wood of the bar’s surface, usually pristine for the short time before the bar opens, is covered in a layer of dust and powder. But what James is focusing on is the fact that there are only three dusty crates of bootleg liquor in front of him, not their usual seven to ten. 

 

John’s head pops up from where he had been rummaging below the bar. The man’s dark hair has the same dust in it as well, as well as what look like bread crumbs.

 

“Eleanor expressed her apologies, and that she’d have more for us tomorrow,” John replies, setting down a stack of glasses so that he can rise and lean on the counter. He knows better, by now, than to remind James that they both knew that it was likely an empty promise. 

 

James grimaces, brushing off some of the debris from the counter. He knows that with the recent wave of crackdowns, what he sees is only what he’s going to get for now. “We’re going to be dry by midnight if that’s all we’ve got for tonight,” he says, lip curling as he inspects his shirtsleeve, now also lightly coated in powder. 

 

John follows the dust falling to the ground with his eyes. “That’s from the packaging,” he offers, and James turns his annoyed expression on him. “They were in a flour shipment this time, in case you were wondering.” 

 

In response, James turns on his heel. “Jack was looking for you!” John adds with a shout, watching his business partner stalk up the rickety staircase that led to the upper level.

 

The saloon itself is small, only half a dozen paces across, but long enough to fit in a small stage. It used to be a private club, off the radar, before they bought it. The sign for the “social club” is still outside, but they rarely get people wandering in during the day anymore, with their reputation on the street. 

 

It’s an old building, but the brick walls on the inside of the bar still have remnants of gold leaf from the decorated ceiling, and the burgundy carpet is still intact. There’s an upper level, where there are a few reserved tables covered in cream tablecloths, and the office, which also leads up to the street outside of the building. 

 

Of course, there’s also a hidden door next to the bar top that leads out to the alley. That’s the main entrance during the night, where people can slip in and out unseen. They can clear out the place on a full night in under two minutes. That, and they can fit twenty people in the cellar that leads below into the ground, thirty if they drink most of the booze down there. In the several times they have been raided, all with a warning from their inside man beforehand, John can swing the bar up into the wall to conceal the bottles of liquor that are stacked there, making it look perfectly respectable to any law enforcement official. 

 

Grabbing a rag with a sigh, John begins to wipe the surface clean, but then the door next to the bar opens with a loud creak. 

 

He glances up reflexively, but it’s just Jack and Anne, the latter lurking behind. “Thought you two were coming back later.”

 

“Was that Flint that just came in?” Jack asks, impatient. 

 

“Just got back. He’s in a mood, though,” John warns, as he resumes his work. 

 

“When is he not?” Jack responds wryly, as Anne takes in the dust and the crates.

 

“Those from Eleanor?” she questions, looking just as happy as James had been about it. 

 

“Is that flour?” Jack wonders as well. 

 

John shoots them both a glare. “Unless you’re gonna help me clean it up, you’d best go,” he says, satisfied when Jack turns to head up the staircase.

 

Anne, on the other hand, grabs another rag. Jack pauses for a moment when she doesn’t follow him, but when she starts to wipe the opposite end of the counter, he leaves them alone to go up the stairs. 

 

John glances at her for a moment, taking in the wrinkle in her brow as she wipes the counter with the sort of vigor of someone who’s trying to avoid something. He would know, after all. 

 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he starts, pausing slightly as she gives him a somewhat murderous look before pressing on, “I appreciate the help, but you look like something’s on your mind.”

 

“What’s it to you?” Anne answers, gruff, but she doesn’t bite his head off, so that’s progress right there. 

 

He decides to be direct. “Max?” he asks, and Anne freezes for a split second. She glances up to the closed door where Jack had disappeared, before fixing him with an angry look.

 

“It’s none of your fucking business,” Anne snaps, and John raises his hands in surrender, going back to the cleaning. 

 

John had been the one to first meet Max, back when he and James had first arrived in New York. It had been 1920, then, and the city ran rife of crime, breeding easy money depending on how dirty one wanted to get their hands. After the Volstead Act, John had lost his bar back in Chicago, and he had met James soon after. Through a series of events, he and James had made it to New York, and founded the saloon, nicknamed the Walrus.

 

Long story short, Max had been trapped in a bit of a situation in an alley one afternoon, after someone had found out she was blackmailing a rather powerful political figure. So John had stepped in and helped her, as any somewhat-gentleman would’ve done. 

 

Little did he know, he had gained a powerful ally that day. Max had connections to every illegal saloon from Harlem to Brooklyn, and helped them to grow the Walrus to one of the largest speakeasies in the borough. James was the menacing figurehead, John the crafty bartender, and Jack and Anne helped with finances and general security, respectively. 

 

Nowadays, Max was a frequent guest at the Walrus, as well as a sort of benefactor. John had never seen Anne and Max have a full conversation, per say, before he had gone down to the cellar one night after closing, and had walked in on them in a rather compromising position. 

 

It had been a shock for all three of them, that’s for sure. Once Max convinced Anne not to murder John right there with the shards of a broken bottle, he thought that he and Anne had come to sort of understanding. He suspected that she knew of his propensity for the rugged looking men who came into their bar sometimes, after all, and never breathed a word about it. After all, there’s only so many times he could’ve asked her to cover his shift as bartender so that he could “escort an investor” into the cellar himself. 

 

He finishes sweeping off the counter to its regular sheen. Soon, when they let in patrons through the fake door above them, it will be covered with glasses and drips, but James has always been particular about starting every night with a clean bar. It’s one of the man’s many peculiar habits, one of the many mysteries that shrouds the man even from John’s inquisitive eyes. 

 

Anne finishes her side, then. John holds out a hand for her rag, but she fiddles with it for a moment. He waits. 

 

“She’ll be here tonight,” Anne says, rather reluctantly and without meeting John’s eye. 

 

“I’ll save her a seat at the end of the counter,” John says carefully in response. Anne raises her head as if to say something else, but then the office door above them thuds open, and Jack’s loud voice filters out. 

 

“Anne, darling, we’re off,” he calls. “We’ll talk about this more,” Jack says back to James, then, sounding petulant, before beginning to make his way back downstairs. 

 

Anne thrusts her rag to John, who catches it in one hand. As Jack reaches the bottom step, she falls into step behind them, and they leave the bar. 

 

John turns to see James also descending the stairs. “Good meeting, then?” John tries, even as he can see that James’s face looks stormy.

 

He prepares to get out of the warpath, but then James’s expression seems to clear when he approaches John. He lifts off the top of one of the crates as John watches, pulling out a bottle of dark liquid. “Glasses?” he asks, and John pulls two from underneath the counter.

 

James pours them both a drink. John takes a sip of the alcohol, wincing as the poorly distilled booze burns down his throat. _Moonshine’s just not the same as the old stuff they used to make_ , he thinks to himself, setting down his glass. But it still gets people drunk and makes them money, so he can’t complain too much. Much like with Anne before, he waits for James to speak. 

 

The man swirls the liquid in his glass, quietly contemplative instead of annoyed now. “Jack just told me that the Ranger is going to be overrun tonight,” James says then, setting down his glass after a moment. The lamp overhead flickers, casting shadows under his cheekbones, and he looks tired. 

 

John stares at him. “You didn’t think to start with that?” he hisses, glancing around them even though they’re the only two in the room. “Did they pinch Vane?”

 

“Not yet,” James tells him. “Jack only knew because of one of his sources. He doesn’t think they’re going to raid us any time soon, but still- keep an eye out, tonight.”

 

“Jesus,” John says then, exhaling. “He’s been busted twice. They’re gonna send him upstate this time.” 

 

“Good riddance,” James replies bitingly. Anyone in the neighborhood knows that there is no love lost between James Flint and Charles Vane. Beyond running rival speakeasies, Flint’s always had a distaste for the way that Vane openly runs off of his mob connections, and Vane has always treated Flint with contempt since he’s coming from out of town so recently and become a big player in the city. 

 

John toys with his glass, spinning it slightly on the smooth surface of the bar. “What did Jack want?” he asks then, glancing back up at James. “He didn’t seem happy when he left.”

 

“He wants to tell Vane about the raid,” the man answers. “But then we lose his source at the deputy commissioner’s if Vane evades them, so I told him no.” 

 

“Jack’s an idiot,” John says with a snort. He takes another sip of the alcohol. “He’ll get over it, though. He knows that you’re going what’s best for the Walrus.”

 

James’s eyes flick up to him, and John can only blame so much of the heat that curls in his stomach on the alcohol. “Are you working tonight?” James asks him, his eyes as pinning as ever. 

 

When he’s drunk, sometimes John tries to think of the exact color of the man’s eyes- somewhere between the pale gray of a rainy dawn morning, and the thick green glass of a bottle, he’d last reasoned. 

 

“Yeah. Anne and I are doubling up, we’re expecting a crowd.” He pauses. “Why do you ask?” 

 

James studies him then, for a moment, before he’s getting up just as abruptly, the action fluid. John might be the closest person in the world to James Flint, but the man will never cease to surprise him. “We’re opening at the usual time,” James says, finishing his drink and putting it down on the counter, leaving before John can say anything else. 

  
It’s not an uncommon situation. He turns to the crates, and begins to hoist more bottles out. 

 

 

 

_Chicago, 1919_

 

 

 

His knuckles ache by now, but if there’s one thing that Flint is determined at, it’s getting the answer. 

 

He hits the man with the hard side of his fist, and the man splutters awake once more. They’re alone in the alley, but he doesn’t feel like running from any patrols tonight, so Flint casts a quick look at the hazy light towards the street before grabbing the man’s jaw in one hand.

 

“Tell me,” he says, as the man groans. He’s already bleeding from a split lip and swollen eye, and they’ve just started. “Was it just you who took the money, or did one of your acquaintances decide to help themselves too?” 

 

“I don’t know-” the man starts, so Flint hits him again. “Fuck! Fuck, you paddy b-”

 

Flint’s fist connects with his jaw, now, and there’s a sickening crunch when he steps on the man’s ankle. The man howls, and Flint hoists him up more so that they’re eye to eye. 

 

“You’re gonna tell me,” Flint tells him, almost conversationally even as his grip tightens on the man’s throat, “So that your family’ll be able to identify your miserable body at the hospital, rather than the morgue.”

 

The man spills quickly after that. Later, as he abandons the man lying against one of the dirty walls of the alleyway, Flint wipes his hands clean on the dark material of his jacket before stepping out underneath the streetlamp to walk away. 

 

It’s a quick walk back to the meeting point. One of Teach’s men, then, steps out from the shadows of another building when he approaches. 

 

“Was he alone?” the man grunts. Flint can’t for the life of him remember the man’s name. Not that it particularly matters. 

 

“His brother was in on it too. Tell Teach that he’ll be out of the city by tomorrow,” Flint responds, turning away. 

 

The man tries to grab his shoulder, but stops at Flint’s cold look. He’d heard the rumors, then. “Teach wanted him out of the picture,” the man insists, his hands twitching. “That means dead.” 

 

Flint levels him with another look. “The patrols are going to come this way soon, so unless you had an excuse for slugging a dead body around this time of night, leave it alone.” 

 

“Teach isn’t gonna like this,” the man says doubtfully. His leg is jiggling now as well. “I don’t wanna be the one to tell him-”

 

“Tell Teach he can fuck off,” Flint cuts him off, and perhaps that was why it went to shit afterwards.

 

He doesn’t sleep much that night. Each time he closes his eyes, he can hear the crunch of bone, sees the man’s scared eyes burned on the backs of his eyelids. 

 

He wakes up with a bitter taste in his mouth far before the sun rises, feeling immeasurably exhausted. When Flint turns on his side in the small bed,he realizes that for the first time in a long time, he’s not surprised that he woke up alone.

 

His fingers curl into the pale sheets at the thought, desperate for the touch that he knows will never come. The realization makes him wants to vomit, and he spends the next several hours staring up at the ceiling instead of sleeping. 

 

•••

 

He’s heading out of the apartment building, the cool morning air hitting him just before the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. 

 

“Hello, Flint,” Edward Teach says, from where he’s looming right outside the front door.

 

Flint doesn’t flinch- nothing scares him anymore, not anymore- but he keeps his expression flat. “Teach.” There are two or three men behind him lurking in the shadows, but even with their guns, Teach is still the obvious danger. 

 

“You disobeyed my orders,” the man says, his tone somewhere between vaguely amused and deadly.“Again.” 

 

He’s too tired to play around. “I did.” He wonders if Teach would order one of his men to shoot him, or if he’s take care of it himself. Either way, he doubt he’d resist. 

 

Teach regards him with another strange look, and Flint stares right back at him.That seems to make him decide something “I need you to take care of something,” he says instead, and hands Flint a piece of paper. “There’s the name and address. It’s a bartender who’s been lax on his payments.”

 

There’s an ominous silence, as he continues to look at Flint. Somewhere in the distance, there’s a clattering sound, then a faint echo of someone shouting. “I trust this time, you’ll take care of it.”

 

Flint’s hands curl around the paper so it crinkles. He doesn’t say a word, even as Teach leaves him, the men trailing in his steps. 

 

Once they’re gone, he glances at the paper. The smudged ink at the top of the page, in curling handwriting, reads _John Silver._

 

 

_•••_

 

 

He gets to the address that afternoon. There’s no sense in delaying it, after all, not with the pistol that’s strapped to his side, a heavy reminder of Teach’s words. 

 

The bar is dark, empty except for a man sweeping the far end of the room. Flint has to squint for a moment until his eyes adjust from the bright sunlight. There’s a faint smell of smoke, tinged with something sweet that he can’t identify. 

 

The man stops sweeping as soon as he notices Flint. His hands tighten on the broom handle perceptibly. “Can I help you?” he asks, voice pleasant enough even though his stance is wary. 

 

“John Silver?” Flint asks, then. 

 

“You’ve found him,” the man says, leaning the broom against the bar counter, his shoulders tight. “You North Side?” 

 

Flint doesn’t answer him. “I’m here on behalf of Edward Teach,” he begins, but then he’s interrupted when the man- John Silver- barks out a hoarse laugh. 

 

“Fuck him,” Silver says then, his eyes glittering in the low light. “So what, he wants to shake me down for more money? Have you break my fingers until he gets it? Well, I don’t have it.”

 

A small part of Flint admires his courage, but he pushes it down into his chest. “He wants me to kill you if you don’t pay.”  


 

“Then, fuck you,” John Silver repeats, taking a step close to him. Flint doesn’t put his hand on his gun, not yet, but squares his shoulders in case the man decides to attack. The man doesn’t even look at the gun. “You can put a bullet in my head, but there’s no way that I’m going to pay another cent to that bastard.”

 

Now that they’re close, Flint can see dark circles underneath red-rimmed eyes. “You know what he fucking did to me?” Silver says then, quiet. “He burned this joint down around me. Destroyed my life. I’m in debt, then, and have to pay him back? It’s not fucking fair. So you do what you must, but I’m not going to give him the pleasure of taking my pride as well.”  


 

“I’m sorry,” Flint tells him, the sound flat in the room. 

 

Silver just looks at him, and Flint can see what he’s seeing. Another one of Teach’s goons, carrying out the orders. He can’t disagree, even if the thought makes his teeth grit. 

 

“So what’s he got on you, then, huh?” Silver spits next, when Flint doesn’t say anything. “You another poor bastard enchanted by the myth? Or maybe you liked to gamble. Maybe you have an eye for one of his women, then-” 

 

At the last one, Flint’s mouth tightens ever so slightly. He knows that Silver sees it, and the man then stops mid-sentence. “A woman, eh?” Silver laughs again, and it’s a broken sound. “Did he take yours too, then?”

 

“No,” Flint replies, feeling something ugly curl in his gut. “He didn’t.” 

 

“It must eat away at you, to do his bidding then,” Silver throws at him next. He’s trying to provoke Flint, and even though it’s obvious, something about his tone is prickling at Flint. “It must be terrible being you.” 

 

Then, just at quickly, he adds, “You know, they’re gonna be shutting down these bars soon. Mine, too. No wonder Teach is trying to shake me down for some last coins.” 

 

Flint stares at him. “You’re insane,” he says, and Silver makes a scoffing sound. 

  
  
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just done,” he says, and if that isn’t a sentiment that Flint understands to the marrow of his bones, then he doesn’t know what is. His eyes finally flicker down to the gun at his hip, and Silver spreads his arms open then, like he’s being crucified right there in the gloomy light between a broom and a shelf of spirits. Daring Flint to make a move.

 

That’s when Flint makes a decision. “You’re going to scramble up whatever you can,” Flint says, “And pay him.”

 

The bartender looks at him like he’s the crazy one now. “You think I have that kind of money?” Silver does lower his arms, then, though, and Flint exhales. He thinks of cold sheets in the morning, pulled to one side. 

 

“I don’t care,” he says. “Just do it, and do it fast.”

 

He turns his back then, and Silver says, “What’s your name, then?” 

 

Flint pauses, his back still to the man. “It’s James Flint.” 

 

And then he’s leaving the bar, back to the sunlight before he can look back. Outside, the sun is warm on his face, but there’s clenching in his chest that he knows is going to take more than fresh air to dissipate. 

 

Back in the bar, John Silver watches him leave. A thought brews its way to the surface of his mind, then, and he abandons the broom. 

 

It comes to fruition, four months later, when James Flint is once again sitting across from John Silver, on a train heading to New York City. Silver’s hands are bound, and Flint is sporting a bullet hole in his shoulder. 

 

Both of them watch the landscape zoom by out of the windows, lest they glance at each other, or worse yet speak of the situation that they’ve gotten themselves in.

 

 

_•••_

 

 

_New York City, 1922_

 

 

 

“Unbelievable,” Jack tells her, “He’s just going to let Vane get taken in.” 

 

They’re walking downtown, a few blocks away from the Walrus. Around them, people stream down the road in woolen jackets pulled up to their chins to avoid breathing in the smoke. 

 

The temperature’s dropped since they left, and Anne pulls her coat more firmly around her shoulders. “You knew Flint was never going to bail him out,” she argues, but the words sound flat even to her own ears. 

 

“Of course I knew that. I suppose I just expected him to have some semblance of a heart, after all,” Jack mutters, and Anne lets her shoulder bump sympathetically into his.

 

“I know you and Vane were close,” she tries in an attempt to soothe. It’s never been her strong suit, though, and Jack just snorts.

 

“We _are_ close, though. Imagine if Max was the one about to be pinched, for example.” 

 

Anne’s face must shutter or something, for Jack quickly amends, “I mean, it’s not the same, of course it isn’t-” 

 

Something hollow yawns inside Anne’s chest. She hates keeping secrets from Jack, and this- this _thing_ with Max, it’s eating away at her that she hasn’t told Jack yet. He thinks she’s been working long nights at the bar helping Silver, when in fact she’s been curled up in another woman’s bed. “Of course it’s the fucking same,” she mumbles, feeling her hands tighten into fists. Someone bumps into her shoulder, and she casts the man a nasty look as he hurries on by. 

 

“Darling,” Jack says, but he leaves it alone. They walk in silence. Anne’s careful not to brush his hand with hers. She doesn’t deserve it, lying to him like this. 

 

She’s known Jack for most of her life, at this point. He’s seen her at her worst, given her everything and anything. He has quite literally saved her life, made her into something- and she’s returning the favor by fucking someone he’s made clear his distaste for. 

 

What she and Max has- well, Anne herself is not sure what they have. With Jack, Anne is able to get up in the morning, but with Max, she’s able to survive the day. From the moment she had met the woman, she knew that she was unable to pass any of it off as lust, as something to be easily shoved away, compartmentalized so it could haunt her dreams instead. Max makes her heart thud faster with every touch, and Anne loves her.

 

But she also loves Jack. She doesn’t know what she would do if either of them makes her choose, since she evidently can’t give either one of them up. Max knows about Jack, that’s for sure, but she’s skilled at hiding her opinions, until she’s sure she wants someone else to know. 

 

They reach their destination, where Max is waiting outside with a hand on her hip. She’s already dressed for the night, in a champagne colored dress that goes to just below her knee, a strand of pearls looped around her neck. It’s been less than a day since Anne has seen her last, but the strain in her chest is eased just at the sight of her. 

 

“Mes amis,” Max greets, giving both of them a kiss on their cheeks. On Anne, her lips just barely graze the corner of Anne’s mouth. She doesn’t know whether she wants to lean in for more or to flinch away. “He’s waiting inside.”

 

Jack nods at her, then heads into the bar. It’s larger than the Walrus, more airy, with the walls a dark shade of vibrant green that seems out of place. 

 

Max catches Anne’s hand before she can follow Jack, however. “Might I have a word?” Max suggests, her eyes nearly gold in this light. 

 

Anne wrenches her hand away, hating how Max’s mouth curls down in the corner. “Later,” she grits out. “Not here.” 

 

Max frowns. “I am headed to the Walrus. Please,” and then she presses a quick kiss to Anne’s mouth, with no one around them to see, “Come find me tonight.”

 

Refusing to watch Max walk away, Anne goes to follow Jack further into the bar then. 

 

Vane is sitting in the corner, at one of the tables pushed close to the wall. He irritably waves away the man next to him, pushing out a chair while taking a deep drag of his cigar. “Jack,” he rumbles, glancing at Anne as well. “What are you doing here?” 

 

Jack sighs, sitting heavily in the chair as Anne comes up behind him. “I have some news regarding our mutual friend.”

 

 

_•••_

 

 

For all the time that John’s been a bartender, there might never be a night when opening doesn’t flood his body with energy. 

 

People start coming in the alleyway door around ten o’clock. By then, John has unpacked the crates, cleaned the glasses, and made sure that James hasn’t strangled Billy during one of their meetings.

 

Billy is their deliveryman, who spends his days running errands, such as going between them and Eleanor, their supplier. He also happens to show just enough disrespect for James that the man wishes to throttle him, but knows he can’t without some repercussions. 

 

Now, there are people milling about, many dancing at the end of the saloon. They have a band in tonight, and the jazz music they’re playing is upbeat, the plucky bass fitting right in with the rumbling chatter of the patrons. 

 

John’s changed his shirt, now wearing his clean white shirt underneath a waistcoat. He slicked his dark hair back as well, even though it’s getting long at the top. It’s paying off now, as two girls giggle and leave him a hearty tip when he pours their drinks with a wink.

 

Anne shows up an hour into the night, just when the bar is getting crowded and unmanageable for one bartender. She looks tense, but she’s never been one to relax, her red hair pinned tightly against her scalp. 

 

“You handle the rough looking crowd, I’ll deal with the cake-eaters over at the end,” John mutters into her ear as he pours a glass of gin quickly, the bottle flashing as it catches the light. 

 

Anne mutters, but goes to the far end of the bar. John fills up half a dozen more glasses for a group of young men who just came in, who look rather disappointed that the beautiful, dangerous-looking woman is not serving them their drinks after all.

 

James was right; they’ve only just started the night, and he’s already finished off one of the crates. They had some liquor left over from the last shipment, but John is loathe to crack into that before Eleanor sends them another delivery. 

 

While he’s mixing a drink, John catches sight of James up at the second level, leaning on the railing. The man is wearing one of his nice charcoal suits, the European cut stretching tight in a way that makes John spill some liquor as he’s pouring. James catches John looking, though thankfully doesn’t seem to recognize that he was ogling the other man’s thighs.

 

He nods, once, and John returns the gesture. James sits down at the table, then, evidently satisfied with the crowd that’s gathering below in the saloon. He’s seated across from Max, whom John had not noticed until just then, who looks glowing as usual. He’s surprised to see them together. 

 

Anne reaches across him for another clean glass, then follows his gaze up to the second level. 

 

John stares, then, since the crowd in front of the bar has reduced enough so that Anne’s taking care of it. “I wonder what they’re talking about,” he wonders, in a low voice only loud enough for Anne to hear. “I can count on my hand the number of times they’ve talked, just the two of them.”

 

She shrugs as she sweeps the counter. “He’s your partner. He’ll tell you if it’s anything important.” 

 

John casts a disbelieving look at her.“Are wetalking about the same man? I don’t think Flint has ever let anyone know truly what’s going on in his head.” 

 

“Maybe not,” Anne says, “But if it was anyone, it’d be you.” She throws an unreadable expression at him, then. “He listens to you.” 

 

Before John can question what that meant, she adds, “Go back to pouring before I throw you out,” and strides to the end of the bar once more with an arm full of glasses and a fresh bottle. John huffs, looking up to James and Max again, before going back to bartending.

 

 

•••

 

 

Max studies him over the rim of her glass of wine- a Merlot that she had brought with her as a gift. Feeling discomfited at her look, James snaps, “What is it?”  


 

“Nothing,” Max says just as easily, setting down the glass. “I was considering if you have thought of the implications of Vane getting arrested.” 

 

James bristles, despite himself. He’s not surprised that she knows- Max has the ear and gossip of any speakeasy in the city- but he doesn’t care for what she’s implying. “Vane has never done me any favors, if you’re saying that I should feel bad for him.”

 

The woman leans forward. “What if I told you that Jack Rackham visited him this afternoon?”  


 

He jerks his head to meet her gaze. “You’re saying that he told Vane?”

 

“Jack has always held Vane in the highest regard. They were friends long before you even came to the city,” Max replies coolly. “But it does not matter if Vane escapes imprisonment tonight, after all, if the rumors are to be believed.”

 

“You’re talking about if city is going to repeal,” James says, understanding her meaning. “Which are unfounded so far.” 

 

Max tilts her head. “If it is true, though, tell me- would you want Vane as an enemy once he is released from prison, under laws that are no longer? When it could have all been avoided if you had taken heed of the current political climate?” 

 

James gives a short laugh. “If I had made decisions based on every whim of politicians, I would soon be out of business.”

 

“Still,” Max urges, and she doesn’t dare put a hand on James’s arm, but her hand flattens on the table between them. “It would bring me no joy to see you undone by this decision.”

 

Without meaning to, James’s eyes glance down towards the bar. John is at the end, in the middle of pouring gin with an elaborate flick of his wrist. He laughs at something a patron says, strands of hair coming loose and sticking to his forehead. James’s fingers itch. 

 

Max follows his gaze before he can look away, and he meets her eyes with a glare. 

 

She rolls her eyes. “If not for you, think about him,” she says, meaningfully looking down at the bar, as James can feel a flush crawl up his neck. “Vane will not stop at you if he has reason for revenge.” Max pauses, before delicately adding, “I have a feeling you would care more about what could happen to Mr. Silver.” 

 

Something unpleasant curls low in his chest at that thought, but he can’t find an appropriate answer that doesn’t give anything away. Max gives a small sigh, and they turn to watch the band play at the far end of the saloon without another word. 

 

Below them, John pushes his hair back from his forehead,his shirt riding up just enough under his waistcoat so that there’s a flash of skin when the shirt is pulled from the waistband of his pants. 

 

James downs his glass of wine. There is not nearly enough alcohol, legal or not, in the entire city right now that he could use to drink right now. 

 

He turns to pour himself more wine, but Max is already there with the bottle in her hand, a sympathetic smile on her face.

 

 

•••

 

 

By three in the morning, by some miracle they still have liquor left. By now, it’s getting to the point where they have to watch out for aggressive drunks, or younger patrons who have had too much to drink. But most of the crowd has cleared out, so it’s easy to keep an eye out in the room. 

 

The band has stopped playing upbeat music for a while now, having switched over to more mellow, quiet tunes. Several couples sway close to where they are playing, hands clutching each other and half-empty champagne glasses. There are a few older people, wistfully watching the others dance, sipping at their moonshine like it’s fine wine and they’re on the French Riviera. 

 

It’s been a relatively successful night, considering no fights have broken out, and people have been good with tips. On the second level, Anne can see Max stand up. The light catches the sequins that are sewn into her dress, and it creates a sparkling effect that she can’t quite look away from. Flint, where he’s sitting across from her, says something. Max nods, giving a long-practiced smile before she moving to walk down the stairs. 

 

Anne looks over to John, who is cleaning broken glass off the ground on the other side of the bar. “Do you need anything?” she asks, as she can practically feel Max getting closer.

 

John picks up another piece of broken glass, wincing as the edges bite into his fingers. “I’ll be fine,” he answers, “You can go.” 

 

Anne doesn’t bother answering, turning just as Max reaches the bottom of the stairs. She smiles at Anne when she approaches the bar, and it’s smaller but more real than the one she had just given Flint. 

 

“I thought we could talk, now,” Anne says, the words thick on her tongue. If anything, Max’s smile grows broader, and she motions to the door leading out to the alley. 

 

“Come with me,” she says, and Anne follows her out into the dark.

 

 

•••

 

 

“Where is Jack?” Max asks, once they’ve made their way onto the street, now walking down side by side. The night air is crisp, and the only people that pass them by are mainly drunkards hobbling home after a long night. 

 

“He went to talk to Featherstone or something. Said that Silver needed me at the bar,” she says, her mouth twisting. 

 

Max laughs then, quietly. “John Silver. His partner was not the most cheerful man I have drank wine with, I must admit.” 

 

Anne scoffs. “Flint’s always been a stubborn bastard. Don’t take it personally.” 

 

Max lets her hand dangle, brush against Anne’s pinky. “Your concern for my feelings is always appreciated, _ma cherie_ , but I am a hard woman to offend.”

 

Anne’s mouth twitches at that. “Thank God for that,” she says dryly, secretly pleased when Max gives another tinkling laugh. 

 

But she sobers up then. “You left very early this morning,” Max mentions. “I missed waking up with you beside me.” 

 

She frowns. “I had to go.” 

 

“I know,” Max says, placating. “I wish that you would tell Jack, though. It is- how do you say- consuming?”

 

Anne’s back stiffens. “Yeah.” Both in confirmation and in agreement, she realizes. 

 

“I only want you to be happy, you know that,” Max adds, softer this time. They’re nearly at Max’s apartment building, where she lives with at least a dozen other young women, mostly prostitutes, even though Max has her own room. 

Anne focuses on the heat that she can feel emitting from the woman beside her, through multiple layers of coats instead. 

 

When they reach the building, Max just says, “Come upstairs with me.” 

 

She allows herself to be led up into the warmth of the apartment, without another word of Jack or the bar, Max’s hand dry and warm in hers. 

 

Once they get inside, to Max’s room, she lets Max tug her gently down onto her bed, pushing off dresses that Max had left there so that it’s only blankets below them. Max kisses at her neck, runs her tongue down her collarbone, fixated even as Anne tries to work that glittering dress down her arms, her back, so that she can see Max fully. 

 

“ _Je t’aime_ ,” Max whispers into the curve of Anne’s neck, as her hands begin to unfasten Anne’s shirt. Anne pretends not to hear, but her body arches into Max’s touch, her hands winding their way to clasp the back of her neck so that Max doesn’t leave. She thinks if she holds onto her tight enough, with her hands and thighs and mouth, that perhaps she won’t have to face whatever is outside those four walls. 

 

Max whispers again, words too quiet for Anne to hear as she kisses her pale hipbones, between her legs, as Anne writhes underneath her. When she comes, Max’s name is rough on her lips, the word strained, so unlike the honeyed tone that Max whispers her name. But the way that Max smiles into her flesh, it makes it seem forgivable.

 

 

•••

 

 

John closes the door on the last few patrons, locking it with a sigh. He picks up another errant glass, brings it to the counter to be cleaned before surveying the messy bar around him. 

 

“Let me,” a voice comes from behind him, and he raises an eyebrow as James begins to clean off the glasses with a cloth and the bucket of water that John had filled. He’s abandoned his jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up to reveal muscular, freckled forearms. 

 

It’s unusual for James to help him after closing hours. Unlike John, he has no taste for socializing, and for the better of all involved in their operation, John usually makes him go over paperwork or retire for the night lest he shout at someone. 

 

Tonight, however, it’s just the two of them in the bar, Anne having long taken off with Max, and Jack God knows where. 

 

“Thanks,” John says after a moment, handing him another glass. “We managed to be left with two entire bottles from the shipment.”

 

James grunts in response. “Were those mixed drinks more water than anything else?” 

 

He hides a smile. “After a certain point, you could hand any one of them a glass of water and convince them it was the finest vermouth, mind you.” John picks up the last of the glasses, bringing them over to the counter. “I would say that was good business acumen.” 

 

James’s hands are careful as they wipe the glasses. John joins him, and together they work silently, getting through most of the glasses in an easy rhythm. James is steady in his motions, his eyes fixed on the glasses in front of them. 

 

He breaks the silence first, however, when they only have a few left to rinse. “What did Max do?” John asks, wary when James looks sour at the mention of her name. 

 

“Nothing she did,” he says begrudgingly, “But what she told me.” 

 

“Was it Jack, then?”  


 

“Vane,” James says, then adds, “She believes Jack told him about the raid.” 

 

“Shit,” John swears. “What are we going to do?” He knows that their connection in the deputy commissioner’s office is the key to them not being shut down most months- with Vane escaping, it wouldn’t take long for them to find the leak, and then their time would be numbered. 

 

“Nothing,” the man answers then, wiping off a last glass. “If what she said was true, then the gears have already been set. What we will need to do is to convince everyone that our business is under no threat, even if words comes out that we have lost our inside man.”

 

John breathes out, setting down his rag. “You mean to keep what will only be a very public trial- an official being accused of aiding illegal saloons- from people’s minds.” 

 

“We will,” James says, and now he’s looking intently at John. “When the two of us speak with the same mind, there seems to be no end of what we are capable of.” He lets the words hang between them, with a sense of urgency that John is unaccustomed to. 

 

John faces him fully, then, only then aware of how close they are. He can see the faint freckles on the tops of the other man’s cheekbones, the flush that must be from the wine he was drinking with Max earlier. “I would hope so,” he says, watching James turn to face him as well. “We have been tied up in our efforts for quite some time now. I would hate to see those go to waste.” 

 

James gives a tiny smile at that, and his exhale is warm over John’s face. “I thought of them, today,” he says, quiet, and something in John’s chest pulls. 

 

He wants to touch James, but doesn’t dare in case he breaks the moment. “They would be proud of what you built here, I would hope,” he replies, and James’s eyes meet his again. 

 

“I don’t know if that brings me comfort or not, I’ll admit,” James says then, and John realizes how easy it would be just to lean forward and press his lips to the wine-stained crease of his lips, lick into his mouth as if the action could bring him any reassurance. 

 

For a short, thrilling moment, James’s eyes appear to flicker down to his mouth as well- but then the door slams open, the lock snapping off the door. 

 

John whirls around, and James’s hand flies to the gun he keeps strapped at his waist. 

 

At the doorway, Vane stands alone, his forehead bleeding sluggishly. “We need to talk,” he says in a threatening tone, looking directly at them. Behind him, John can feel James stiffen. “We’ve been compromised.”

 

 

•••

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping to have multiple chapters of this soon, but let's see how it goes! This first one was mostly world building, more fun stuff ahead ;)
> 
> Written because I have a weakness for historical AUs and the Prohibition Era, though there's some historical wiggling to be done for the purposes of fic :)


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